


Tonight

by sarahmademedoit



Series: Time [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, Prostitute Draco Malfoy, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmademedoit/pseuds/sarahmademedoit
Summary: Tonight he falls in love for twenty euros and wills himself to feel as much of it as deeply as possible before he has to will himself to forget it in the warm glare of daylight.





	Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters and plot points belong to R*wling & Co. This was inspired by the song Candles by Daughter. As always, Sarah made me do it.

He shouldn’t fuck him again. He knows he shouldn’t. He should go home and at least pretend he wants his life - the marriage, the house, the job, the whole tooth-rotting lot of it. He should do the right thing. He knows what he should do. He just never does it.

Because, why? Why lay in the dark beside a woman he doesn’t love, never loved, when he could roll between the sheets with a gorgeous smile and magnetic eyes? Why drink fire whiskey in the silence of his living room when he could stroke the hair and cock of a mouthy brat? Why live the life he has when he could live the life he wants, if only for a moment, a heart beat, the endless seconds of an orgasm, the quiet of the pillow and the fire and the cash passed betwixt hands.

They don’t talk. They don’t ask how the other found themselves here. It’s too complicated, their trajectories too messy to explain. It’s less messy to play pretend. So by unspoken agreement they follow the same silent script each night, because there are things about this exchange that should be messy but talk isn’t one of them. It’s better to slip silently out of the streetlight and into the dim room that’s cool and sheets that are still warm. (He never asks why the sheets are still warm. Part of him doesn’t want to know. Part of him already does.)

They don’t talk, but he wants to ask a million questions. He wants to ask how long this room has been his home. He wants to ask how long he’s been welcoming men into his body; into his heart when he flashes a rare, real smile; into his mind for the moment just after he finishes when he whispers what he really thinks into the collar bone of his temporary lover. He wants to ask what he really thinks about the men that touch him. He wants to ask what he really thinks of _them_, if there is a _them_, if there ever, in some alternate timeline where they weren’t asked to make such adult decisions so young, could have been a _them_.

One day, he’ll work up the courage. One day, he’ll live up to his name and do the right fucking thing, not for the world but for himself. Tonight isn’t that night.

Tonight, he blows out the candles, and slips into his body, and makes love to him as tenderly as he knows how. Tonight, he bites and leaves marks and revels in the fact that his company under covers won’t say no, not to him, _never_ to him. Tonight he maps his hands over long blonde strands, and bony hips, and the soft curve of a belly, and poking ribs, and the feel of long toes twitching against his calf. Tonight he falls in love for twenty euros and wills himself to feel as much of it as deeply as possible before he has to will himself to forget it in the warm glare of daylight.

Tonight, tonight, tonight. Tonight, there’s this. Tonight, there’s enough.


End file.
